


Four Things that Positively Won't Happen in Season Four

by istia



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M, POV Radek Zelenka, POV Rodney McKay, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-25
Updated: 2007-06-25
Packaged: 2017-10-18 01:44:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/istia/pseuds/istia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney's willing to do anything to avoid dwelling on John's multiple stupid charms. Then there's Radek, who has his own secret project.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Things that Positively Won't Happen in Season Four

**Author's Note:**

> Written after Season 3 in a challenge to list four things you were sure would _not_ happen in the upcoming fourth season. My mind, for some reason, went straight to the ridiculous.

###### ONE

Rodney sighed and shuffled backwards a couple more steps, stopping when the edge of a shelf pressed against his spine. "I wish we didn't have to meet like this. I hate skulking about like...like freaking _criminals_! Or like I've picked up a whore and have to find a place to do it, whatever that's like, not that I'd know. Um, the picking up a whore, I mean, not the doing it--though, you know, that's sort of hot to think about, that we're in here because you're a--"

"McKay, shut up."

The deep-throated growl melted his knees with anticipation. Rodney aimed a smile upwards, admiring the way the soft Ancient lighting reflected off the copper walls--possibly the Ancients had used this small, trapezoidal room for some purpose other than a supply closet--to cast a ruddy sheen over the long hair. Rodney reached above his head to run his fingers through the hair just as a large hand closed around his bicep and jerked him flush against a hard chest. He squeaked and his fingers tangled in the hair, inadvertently pulling, which elicited another growl, this one reverberating through the lips pressed to his throat.

Rodney tilted his head, murmuring, "Yes, yes, there, there, there...no, over to...ahhh," and other utterances characteristic of a genius with patellae reduced to jelly. The coarse texture of the hair against his palm had the usual inflaming effect and Rodney tugged on the leather coat, mentally rubbing his hands together when his companion rearranged himself into Rodney's favorite position. Rodney looked down fondly.

"You're like a Ralph Lauren ad for the benefits of chasing around the galaxy for years with the end-result of a toned, fit, and graceful body. My knees, on the other hand, always crack when I get down on them--have you noticed that? Well, of course you have; hearing like a bat."

"What's a bat?"

Rodney looked at the upturned face and the clever fingers tragically paused in the act of opening Rodney's fly. "Never mind, really, it's nothing, not important, just a creature, very smart and gorgeous and beloved where I'm from, everybody adores bats; highly prized pets, in fact, cost a fortune. Everyone wants to be batlike, but failing that, to get one as a pet." He urged the head downward with gentle pressure and a wide-eyed, hopeful nod, sighing and settling his feet apart as his pants were opened and his dick released. Its rosy head bobbed like a cockatiel in a mating dance, then swelled with outright giddiness when a warm, damp gust of air enveloped it. Fingers and tongue went to work and Rodney leaned his head back and let him get on with it until he felt an ominous scrape. His head snapped forward.

"Hey, hey, watch the teeth! Remember what happened last--"

"McKay--"

Rodney twitched, but waved his hand in the air. "Okay, yes, shutting up. Just be careful, all right? It was hard to explain last time; Carson's got a surprisingly dirty mind under that pristine white voodoo coat of his. I had to use poor Katie Brown as an excuse agai-- Ohh."

He closed his eyes, the better to savor the myriad sensations, running his hand over the bowed head with incessant need. When long fingers closed around his balls, jostled themselves into the familiar position, and commenced suckling, Rodney flexed his fingers in the hair and whimpered.

"Oh, oh, yes, that's good. That's...that's amazing, actually." He chuckled suddenly, the bare strip of his belly beneath his rucked-up T-shirt quivering in his peripheral vision. "Seems you're a meat-eater, after all! _And_ a veg eater. Meat and two veg!" He beamed downwards, only to meet a stoic face and two slit-eyed pupils as humorless as a fish's eyes, but since the wide mouth with its impressive rows of blue-toned teeth was wrapped around his dick, Rodney waved it off hurriedly. "Just a joke; an in-thing, so to speak. An in-thing for us, that is; us as in humans-us. Totally not important. Carry on."

As the mouth obliged and the hand upped the pressure all around his sac, making Rodney shiver and flush from head to curled toes, he mumbled, "Who would've thought feeding during sex could be so enjoyable? Or that you guys do this together regularly! The encyclopedia that queen gave us didn't include any of this kind of thing. I _knew_ it was edited." His attempt at a severe tone and a frown evaporated with a particularly tingling pressure on his balls. He grunted and grabbed at the shelf to keep himself from sliding down into a puddle as the non-feeding hand joined the banquet in the Rodney McKay nether regions. His voice came out at a higher register than usual and a tad breathless. "Censored, even. All the good bits excised. All the _really_ , really good bits...mmm-mmmpf...."

As the hand, the mouth, and the hand-mouth worked their magic, Rodney had one last clear thought. "It's just _wrong_ that those narrow-minded, blinker-wearing, unimaginative xenophobes in charge wouldn't let us be together simply because they think it's somehow--" he flailed out one-handed air quotes "-- _bad_." He brightened, indignation sliding away. "Though on the upside, since I wouldn't be able to resist telling, it's damned lucky no one'll ever think to ask."

The Wraith chuckled, his throat a slick vibrating sleeve around Rodney's dick while his feeding hand did unspeakably good things to Rodney's balls, and Rodney slid past coherence right on into the zone.

 

###### TWO

"There you are!"

Rodney jumped, face flushing, and glanced up, then scrabbled after his papers on the table. He captured the last stray one just as Sheppard was reaching for it. Rodney tucked the page among the others while Sheppard crossed his arms over his chest ( _muscles cording in his bare, wiry forearms_ ), and tilted his head; the sun streaming through the window above him stained the spiky tips of his hair cobalt, like art deco detailing on a Desky design.

Rodney blinked his eyes away and licked his lips.

"Are you doodling Wraith again? You know, buddy, I'm kinda getting worr--"

"What? No! Of course not. I've been working on, uh, on an improvement to the, um-- Well, an enhancement, at least, if it works out." He had all the papers secure in one hand and waved his other in a curlicue that diverted Sheppard's gaze for almost an entire half-second.

"Uh-huh." Sheppard squinted at him, then eased into a hip-shot slouch against the table ( _dark hair peeking from the neck of his tight black shirt and dog tags outlined against his chest beneath it_ ). "Well, I've been looking for you. There's a glitch in the--"

Rodney looked at his watch and leaped to his feet, clutching the papers to his chest. "Sorry, Colonel, busy. Crucial appointment! Must run."

He made it to the door before Sheppard said, "Hey!"

Rodney turned, one foot planted over the threshold into freedom. Sheppard was now standing upright with his hands on his hips ( _dark hair gleaming on tanned, sinewy arms_ ). Rodney summoned his most ferocious scowl. "What? What? Busy here!"

"Rodney, I think we might have a serious problem. You need--"

"Ah, sorry, really have to run." He waved a hand as he escaped into the hall. "Call Zelenka! I'm sure he can handle anything that comes up at least as well as I could. Better, even!"

 

###### THREE

"Zelenka, report to the Control Room immediately."

Radek banged his head on the pillow three times, muttering, " _Ne, ne, ne_." He slid out from underneath the prototype and snagged his radio from the desk, fitting it into his ear with practiced ease. "On my way, Colonel."

He cast a longing look over the prototype following him--testing the Cleopatra skin today, so attractive!--and patted the arm that tried to slide around his waist. He heaved a sigh.

"Still."

The prototype straightened. "Yes, darling."

The prototype moved to the head of the bed and bent over at the waist, folding itself down in half like an ironing board and wrapping its arms around its ankles to snug the two lengths of its body together, ass upright. The short linen tunic rode up in the back, showing the bottom curves of two perfect silicone buttocks. Radek muttered Czech curses as he retrieved the woven Athosian cloth from the couch. He paused to adjust himself in his pants and zip up, then spread the cloth over the prototype, arranging it to hang evenly to the floor on all sides. He placed his book and his glasses case artfully on the top. The prototype's position and unwavering stillness created an adequate approximation of a table to casual eyes--and since only the most casual of gazes ever entered his room, he felt safe from detection.

He pulled on his blue science shirt, ran a hand through his hair, and headed to the door, ignoring the mirror on the way. People were used to his looking rumpled; another convenient blind. He opened the door and paused to look back at his lovely invention. Ah, if only, just once, he could let Rodney see just how much more brilliant Radek was!

He shook his head as he stepped into the hall, locked the door behind him, and hurried to the nearest transporter. The satisfaction--immense as it would be!--of seeing Rodney in a fit of red-faced, spluttering envy wouldn't be worth trading away his secret too soon. He still had much work to do before the prototype would be ready to be unveiled and win him his Nobel (and seeing Rodney _then_ would make the wait completely worthwhile).

His latest work on the skins, for instance, was progressing nicely, with the Nordic, Yoruban, and Songhees skins virtually perfected, each proving to be both durable and appealing during the rigorous testing he'd exposed them to. The Cleopatra Egyptian was doing well in current testing, but work was needed on the others, particularly the Japanese and Irish, and he had plans for more. Variety was the spice of life, yes? If only he had more free time to do the work that was needed--and the testing, so very time-consuming, all the testing!

He traded his smile for a serious mien as he stepped from the transporter and glimpsed Sheppard bent over a console in the Control Room. Keeping the prototype secret also provided, he admitted as he strode down the corridor, its own allure. Many people on Atlantis suspected he was working on a secret project, but none came close to guessing the sheer magnitude of the accomplishment his prototype represented! If they knew, ah, he would be swamped with demands for copies; everyone would want a design to their own specifications (speaking of which, the male skins were falling behind in the testing schedule; he made a mental note to redress that situation _ihned_ ).

Even the marines, he was sure, would eagerly trade this "hooch" some of them seemed to think he was producing for a prototype all their own.

 

###### FOUR

Rodney was being helpful with their mutual unbuttoning and unzipping, and his description of his hectic and annoying day was eliciting the usual inflaming array of growls and grunts, when a transporter beam washed him in light and he reared back, bruising his shoulder blade on the damned shelf. When he'd blinked the spots from his eyes, it was to see his Wraith slumping to the floor in mid-leap with Ford standing over him with a gun. Rodney stared between the awkward heap of the Wraith and, jeez, Ford?

"What? What the hell? Oh, no. No, no, no! What the hell are you doing here? And how did you _get_ here?"

Ford nudged the Wraith with a scuffed boot--SGC issue, long past its shelf date--then put his gun in the holster strapped to his thigh and turned to beam at Rodney. Rodney tried to rear back, but was out of maneuvering room.

"Hey, McKay, great to see you!" Ford made pummeling motions in the air between them, but didn't step closer. "Just chill, okay. He's only stunned. We'll take him away in a few minutes and everything'll be co-pa-ce-tic." His grin increased to incandescent levels, the shine of his normal right eye accentuating the matte black of his other.

Rodney twitched and hid a shudder with belligerence. "We? Who's we?"

He considered the chances of his managing to yell an SOS into his radio before Ford took him down, but hesitated in the hope he'd be able to preserve his secret. Elizabeth was hardly going be pleased if she found out about his--perfectly harmless!--secret Wraith, and he didn't even want to think about Sheppard's or, oh, hell, Ronon's and Teyla's responses.

"My men'll pick us up in just a minute. They're circling the planet; we've got shielding--" he looked at Rodney with expectant pride; Rodney managed a grimace a madman might construe as praise "--but it might not be up to totally fooling Atlantis's sensors, so they're doing a dodge-and-weave."

"Your men? What men? I thought they were mostly killed."

Ford chuckled as he pulled heavy-duty, chain manacles from inside his battered Tac vest. As Ford crouched beside the Wraith, however, the look he shot at Rodney was flat. "There are always more men willing to join a righteous cause."

"Oh, right, and you're what? Jim Jones of Pegasus now?"

He lifted a hand toward his ear, but froze when Ford fixed him with his black eyeball--could he even see out of that thing?--until Rodney dropped his hand. Remembering at which point he'd been interrupted, he fastened his pants, then clasped his hands, sweaty palms sticking together. Ford shoved the Wraith onto his front and dragged his arms behind his back, fastening the cuffs on him. Rodney's fingers tapped an agitated rhythm against each other. Ford's pants were some kind of Pegasus fabric; the only bits of his uniform left seemed to be his boots and vest. Even the gun he carried in his nine .mil holster was some kind of local-made stunner.

Rodney tried a wheedling tone. "Ford, look, it's great to see you, really, but--"

Ford stood up and faced him. "I'm really disappointed in you, McKay." His voice rose in pitch, evoking for a lurching moment the lost boy who'd come through the gate with them three years before. "You're hiding a _Wraith_ on Atlantis? How could you do something so stupid and dangerous! I thought you were supposed to be the big genius around here!"

"I'm more of a genius than anyone else you'll ever meet in your miserable life!" He spoke reflexively, then took a breath and made another attempt at being cajoling. "No, seriously, he's not dangerous. Believe me, I'd've been dead a dozen times over by now if he were! He's more like a...a vegan among Wraith."

"Yeah, well, how many people has this vegan killed in the time you've been hiding him?" Ford looked at him with implacable surety.

"None! Not one! I swear, Ford, it's true. He feeds from me, just a little, three, four times a day. It's--it's non-invasive feeding, like grazing, feeding without killing; he takes enough to keep him going, but without doing me any harm. Seriously, do I look any different?"

Ford looked him over from his feet to his head. "You look like hell." He kept a straight face for a few seconds, then broke up into cackles.

"Oh, wonderful! And you're the prince of--" Rodney waved his hands in _strike-that_ fashion and started over. "It's true, honest to God. Look, some of them do it with each other all the time. By taking a little several times a day, he survives without doing me harm, and if he needs a little more, he's able to give it back again, the way the Wraith did with Shep--uh, well. That's not important. The point is--"

His thoughts skittered away as he stared at Ford's stern face, aged beyond his twenty-seven years even in terms of the general effect of twenty-seven years in the harsh crucible of the Pegasus Galaxy. Rodney grabbed at his most pressing question.

"How did you know he was here?"

Ford shrugged. "We've been tracking him. My new science guy's built a great tracker!" He lit up with pride and happiness for a moment before the weary somberness grayed his features again. "When we realized he was here, I came down to check things out. That's when I found out what you were doing." He curled his lip. "Gross, McKay."

Rodney waved that away. "Okay, fine, you know, you found me out. Good for you. Just let him stay, okay? If you've been watching, you know he isn't hurting anybody!" He dropped his voice. "Ford, please--"

"He killed a lot of people before you found him hiding here."

"He doesn't want to kill! That's what I'm trying to tell you, you idiot!"

Ford's eyes narrowed, but before Rodney could backtrack again, a buzzing noise made him jump. Ford pulled a bulky black box from a pocket in his vest and pushed a button. The buzzing stopped; Ford pushed the button in some kind of code, then tucked the box away. He moved across the narrow space and stood astride the Wraith.

"Better step back so you don't get caught in the beam."

Rodney stood against the far wall. "Just where did you get beaming technology from, anyway?"

Ford grinned, all white teeth and dancing eyes. "Great to see you! Say hi to everybody for me, okay? Tell the Maj--the Colonel I'm doing great! We're kicking Wraith ass!" In another lightning change of mood, he sobered. "You'll be okay now I've got rid of the Wraith for you. I still got your back, McKay."

"No, Ford, wait!"

He started forward, but the beam enveloped Ford in an angelic glow. As he faded--intriguingly, the tech was efficient, but not the instantaneous transfer of the Asgard beam--Ford called, "Hey, and don't worry, Doc; we're gonna keep your friend here alive for a long, long time." The last Rodney saw of him was the gleam of his crazed eyes, manic version of the Cheshire cat's grin, before they vanished and the beam winked out.

"Dammit." He let his knees buckle and slid down the wall to sit on the floor. He rested his arms on his upraised knees and stared at the empty place where his Wraith had lain. Alone again. No more hand with a feeding slit to wrap around his balls and suckle him into pleasure few humans had ever been privileged to know. No more deep, growly voice making his skin prickle with gooseflesh, or flowing white locks like a horse tail to curl his fingers into while a mouth full of otherwise redundant teeth did amazing things to his dick.

Damn Ford! Where did the do-gooder little twit get off deciding whom Rodney could consort with? Outrageous!

Rodney dropped his forehead onto his knees and clutched as best he could at his short, feathery hair. Worst of all, thanks to fucking Ford, he no longer had a buffer between his salacious thoughts and his awareness of Sheppard and his sundry stupid charms. This situation couldn't end well. It really, really couldn't. He'd either implode from bottled-up desires or turn witlessly brave, make a pass at Sheppard, get turned down (or, gah, offered sex without any strings), work himself into a ghost of his former self in a melancholic funk, eventuating in the death of the greatest genius in two galaxies--and counting--all thanks to Ford's priggish meddling. One lunatic ex-marine lieutenant shouldn't wield that much power over the fate of, hello, possibly the _universe_.

Moments later, when Sheppard's drawl caressed his eardrum--which abruptly seemed to be connected directly to Rodney's dick again--he pushed himself to his feet with a moan. Of course his day had to get worse; what else could he expect now Ford had ripped away his safety net? Leaving the supply closet, his steps faltered as he heard the door swish shut behind him for the last time, but he squared his shoulders and keyed on his radio. He spoke loudly to drown out the sexy voice saying something about imminent meltdown and catastrophic failure.

"Yes, yes, yes, I'm on my way, don't get your striped boxers in a twist. Just keep Zelenka from doing any further damage before I get there. I'm a genius, you know, not Annie Sullivan."

He clicked his radio off on a "Rawdnee--" that sent shivers down his spine, and waved his hand over a transporter control with a glum reflection on the many hours ahead he'd spend pining for his Wraith as a safe retreat from Sheppard's magnetic black hole.

Slumping to a lean against the transporter's wall in bleak misery over his loss, he blinked as sudden doubt made him wonder if three years in Pegasus might've (ever so slightly) eroded his ethics and morality? He thought hard about the question for the entire length of time it took the transporter to reach his destination.

...Nah.

He stepped from the transporter into chaos with his mouth in a downward tilt, but with the confidence of the pure of mind.


End file.
